


hands are shaking cold(these hands are mine to hold)

by askmeaboutmyoctopustheory



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Human, Carl dies before the story starts, Minor Character Death, Pygmalion, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-20 23:41:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16148000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/askmeaboutmyoctopustheory/pseuds/askmeaboutmyoctopustheory
Summary: Markus is a sculptor who unknowingly breathes life into one of his pieces.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all.
> 
> This is a bit of Pygmalion, a bit of Sophie from Howl's Moving Castle(the book, not ghibli) where Markus is coping with carl's death and talks/breathes life into his sculpture. 
> 
> Thanks Felix for the prompt, sorry(not sorry) I made it into a ship you don't like. Thank you The Scream Bois for helping me figure out where to take this!
> 
> Thanks for reading!

An empty studio feels like a corpse in itself, Markus thought as he looked around at his father’s paintings. The tallest ones spanned the height of the loft room, but the smallest could fit in a postcard frame. They were priceless, a visual tale of a life well lived. That was now over. 

 

“Markus?” A female voice pulled him from his thoughts. He saw his friend North standing at the studio door. “Staring at the art won’t bring him back.”

 

“Yeah. I know.” Markus gave her a small smile. They stood there in their black funeral clothes, surrounded by his father’s paintings.

 

“He was like a father to me too. He led us both to the art we love.”

 

“He was always so disappointed neither of us liked to paint though.” North laughed out. She was a photographer known for her dramatic and striking shots. Markus had preferred to work with clay and his hands.

 

“Nah he was never disappointed in us. He loved you like a daughter, you know.”

 

“You gonna hold on to all the paintings?”

 

“Some of them at least. If he didn’t want them sold during his lifetime I’m not gonna try and get rid of them now. Do you want any of them?” Markus gestured at the bright canvases around them. North walked up to one of the larger pieces. It was red, with jagged lines and bold strokes. 

 

“He did this one right after his accident, right? Said it helped him cope with the loss of his mobility?” North asked her own question, not answering his. “Maybe you should try the same thing?”

\-----

Markus’ painting skills were not his father’s. He didn’t understand the flow of the colors and how to achieve the brush strokes. He never had. He preferred the classical lines of sculpture. The erratic, childlike brushstrokes that filled the canvases around him were a testament to that. He gritted his teeth and angrily splattered paint around. Why did his father have to die? Why couldn’t he have been uploaded into a supercomputer with all his endless wisdom to guide Markus through life?

 

“Blue. Sadness.” North remarked when she saw all the messy canvases Markus had completed in the few days since the funeral. “Why did you choose painting?”

 

“Didn’t you say I should do what Carl did after his accident to try and cope?” Markus wiped his nose, smearing paint on his face.

 

“I meant you should create something beautiful. Something born of sadness. Not that you should try and be your father.” North wiped the paint off gently. 

 

“Are you saying my preschool-looking abstracts aren’t beautiful? I’m hurt.”

 

“Oh shut up. We both know it’s not your strong suit.”

\----

Clay is tough. It has to be beaten and molded. It’s dirty and sticky and sticks in hair and fingernails. Markus’ sweat droplets and tears mixed with his clay as he worked it in his hands. He thought of the doctors, telling him there was nothing else to be done. He thought of waking up in his father’s mansion alone for the rest of his days. His eyes stung as his work bench blurred in front of him. 

 

Instead, he thought of classical proportions. Classical beauty. Like the Medici Venus and Michelangelo’s David. He thought about the beauty that his father saw in the world around them. Beauty in a bug’s wings, or in an oil splatter on a rainy day. 

 

Markus looked down at what his hands had made. A torso. A male torso. Well proportioned, yes, but not overly muscled. Slim but powerful like a warrior. He felt better.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day i'll learn to write longer chapters, but that day is not today.

Markus dreamed about his father that night, he was a little boy. He saw an angel who took his father, leaving him alone in a field of flowers. The flowers turned into his paintings, swirling around him, drowning him, until the same angel pulled him out.

 

He woke with a start, gasping for breaths. His alarm clock said 2:36am. He ran down to his studio, scrambling to turn lights on and get his clay out. The face of the angel. That’s who he would sculpt. He frantically molded the cheekbones and jaw. He carved out the lips and browbones. 

 

“There we go. That’s beautiful.” Markus said, half to himself, half to his clay. He took a fine tuning tool gave it dimples.

 

North found him passed out on his workbench, his face inches away from the clay one next to him. She was glad he was making something beautiful.

 

Markus became obsessed with his sculpture. He spent his nights talking to it, fussing over minute details. He gave it fluffy hair and fidgety hands. He sculpted a tiny coin in its hands, making the tiny individual marks on the side of the coin. North came to visit him, with their other friends that had stuck around from art school days. They tried to coax him out, but he adamantly stayed in his studio day in and day out. They all agreed that it was his best work yet, but that maybe he should talk to something alive rather than his art. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, but he was more animated than ever. He was pouring his life into this piece.

\-----

Another night, another dream. His dreams recently had all included his father and the angel he had based his sculpture off of. His father was appearing less and less in his dreams, and dream-Markus was getting closer and closer to the age he was in real life. Markus woke up, startled. He had fallen asleep on his studio bench again. He was putting the finishing touches on his sculpture’s eyes, always the last thing he sculpted. Eyes communicated the tone of the whole piece. The eyes he saw in his dreams were warm and understanding, almost dog-like. He stood back when he was finished, admiring his work. 

 

“I should give you a title I suppose. You’re like David, but I’m no Michaelangelo. How about Connor? You look like you’d be a Connor.” Markus mused at his statue. The grandfather clock in the hallway struck two, startling Markus. “Good night, Connor.” 

 

Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe the dim light. But Markus swore he could’ve seen a wink on the eyes he just finished.

His father wasn’t in his dream that night, but he heard his voice. Markus was laying in a field of flowers, the same one from his first dream. His father’s comforting voice came through the clouds, and the angel came and laid next to him.

_ “Connor.” _

__

_ “You named me.” _

__

_ “I did. I hope you don’t mind.” _

__

_ “I don’t. I am a creation of your own mind, after all.” _

__

_ “My father just said something about equilibrium? What did he mean?” _

__

_ “We’ll just have to find out.” _

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again-sorry for the short chapters. I like to separate things as I think about them, which i realize might be annoying
> 
> Enjoy!

Markus awoke from a deep sleep. He hadn’t slept this well since his father died. He remembered the night before, finishing his masterpiece. He made a luxurious breakfast for himself and enjoyed his coffee rather than gulping it down. Afterwards, he went to admire his work. He pushed open the doors to his studio and was faced with the impossible.

 

There was a man on his work bench. A slim but well-muscled man, with floppy hair and a coin in his hand. He was flipping the coin over in his hand when he heard the door open. The large, doe-like eyes met Markus’ and they both gasped. 

 

“.....Connor….?”

 

“Markus.”

 

They just stood there staring at each other for several moments. Markus slowly walked towards the man-Connor. It was impossible. How could he be alive? Markus blushed as he stood in front of his creation, since he hadn’t sculpted him with clothes. He brought up a hand to lightly stroke the high cheekbones and cleft chin he had sculpted, marveling in the goosebumps that his touch brought. He was alive.

 

“How? How are you alive?”

 

“You talked life into me. You poured the life of your father into me. A life for a life. Universal equilibrium.”

 

Markus’ head was spinning. He needed air. Or a drink. Or just to think. He backed away from Connor rapidly, breathing shallowly, knocking things over as he scrambled outside to his father’s garden. He fell on his knees under the cherry blossom tree they had planted together

 

_ “Papa, why do things have to die?” Young markus asked when they were walking in the woods one day. He had seen a dead bird on the side of the path. _

 

_ “Things have to die so other things can live. It’s the balance of the universe, Markus.” Carl had pulled back the underbrush to reveal a nest of baby mice.  _

 

Current-day Markus was heaving on the grass. Equilibrium. A life for a life. Or he had put hallucinogens in his coffee. He slowly stood and returned to the studio. Connor looked at him and smiled gently. He was rolling the coin over and over on his knuckles. 

 

“I imagine you have questions. I don’t know if I have the answers. I only have what you breathed or talked into me, either consciously or unconsciously from your dreams as you slept here.”

 

“You-you’re from my dreams.” Markus stammered, the man had a soft and soothing voice. And he was proud enough in his sculpting ability to say that Connor was hot. And he was still naked.

 

“Because you sculpted me from your dreams.” Connor reminded him gently. He flicked the coin once again. “Why did you give me this coin? I rather like it.”

 

“I don’t know. I just needed to focus on things other than loss. So I sculpted all the tiny ridges and details.” Markus reached over to take the coin. Their fingers brushed and Markus was taken aback at the warmth of Connor’s hands. So unlike the clay he was molded from. Connor shivered as their hands touched. “Are you cold?”

 

“Not really, but I would appreciate being clothed.” Connor said with a grin. “I have a feeling I’m going to see more people today.”


	4. NOW WITH ILLUSTRATION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lovely dirkapitation-station on tumblr made this art for the previous chapter, and they've been a diligent commenter on this fic, fueling my ego and want to write more. Go give them some love!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My next (and probably final) chapter of this will be up soon! Thank you all!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i uhhhhh didn't really wanna write more of this but i had said i was going to so heres like.... an epilogue or somethin sorry I'M SHIT AT UPDATING/MAINTAINING A STORY

Connor sat primly on the plush couch in Carl’s-now Markus’- living room. He could hear Markus whispering not at all softly to his friends from art school. He decided not to let them know he could hear them all talking about him and fiddle with his coin instead. His existence was a puzzle to him as well, but he was just happy to be alive rather than cold clay. Markus had poured life and wisdom into him, much of which had been passed down from Carl. Eventually, Markus and his friends came to stand in front of the couch facing him. 

“Connor?” The girl, North was her name, spoke first. “You don’t know how you’re alive either?”

“Well. No.” Connor hesitated before continuing. “In his dreams and in Markus’ memory I saw his father telling him about balance of life. Equilibrium. Markus making me to deal with the grief of losing his father restored the equilibrium.”

North walked towards the couch and gently touched his hair. She looked at his eyes and seemed to be convincing herself that, yes, he was alive and real. 

“Well Markus you must be some sort of magician. Good thing you’re not a surrealist is all I can say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Again thanks to dirkapitation-station on tumblr for the art! Thanks for all comments and kudos and feel free to send me any prompts either on here or on tumblr my blog is hit-or-sink.


End file.
